Bury the Hatchet
by BeGodlyBeLynn
Summary: Their hands were equally stained in blood: his in murder, hers in cowardice. Both were struggling to atone for their sins. Two souls, a world apart, joined forces with the sole purpose of bringing their demon to justice. But salvation is not vengeance.  Previously Piece of Vengeance, Peace of Mind
1. As You Push Up From the Soil

1: As You Push Up From The Soil

Boone had been walking for days.

He was focused on the rifle in his hands and the dirt beneath his feet and the sun pounding down on his back, but everything else was a blur. Nothing else made sense. Nothing else mattered.

He was walking in the general direction of home, but he didn't feel like he was going anywhere. He knew he had a destination in mind. He was going home, but not to stay for long. He knew he was going the right way, but he didn't care. A part of him wanted to just walk in the opposite direction and let the Mojave swallow him up. He felt utterly detached from the world around him; his senses had decided, somehow, to disobey nature. The sun was hot, but he was shivering, his hands numb and seemingly frozen. He was only half here, the other half of him buried in the ground. Never in his life had he felt so wretched, so firmly planted in rock bottom. He couldn't forget. For the life of him, he couldn't forget. He tried to think of other things, but everything stank of his wife and dragged him back to that place on the cliff over Cottonwood Cove.

He'd been following them for only three days when he'd tracked them to their destination. When he drew near, he had to pause. For all this time he'd been hoping that perhaps he could catch them at a weak point, hoping that he could save her and then leave Novac and never return. But the escort patrol hadn't let up. He'd been following them from afar, lining them up in his scope, trying to get a clear shot, but somehow unwilling or unable to pull the trigger. He'd been discouraged by the numbers. Stupid. He was sure that somewhere down the road, he'd had a chance. He'd been too careful. Too scared. Too confident that there was a better window elsewhere. Now he was standing only a few hundred yards from the sign marked Cottonwood Cove.

It was crowded, and he had a sick feeling that he knew what was going on. The commotion confirmed his theory. It was a slave auction. They were bringing them up one by one, shouting out prices. Bidding on things that no man had any right to. For a moment he'd entertained storming the crowd and just shooting everyone, but then he had a better idea. He ran in the opposite direction.

Boone's breath was ragged and sweat was running down his face but he didn't care. He climbed the hill and found a place safely tucked away from view, a place that commanded a sweeping view over the camp. He could see the slaves and the Legionaries bidding on them. He brought the rifle to his eye and searched the crowd of prisoners, trying to seek out the one he'd been looking for.

There she was. Even in her bloody, bruised, terrified, malnourished, tired state, she was still beautiful. Her wide eyes were filled with terror, looking around desperately, praying that someone would please come and save her. Save them both. There were tear tracks on her face. I'll save you, thought Boone. I'll save you.

He swept his scope over her, over the round, natural bump in her belly. It felt like just seconds ago that he'd been running his hand over that belly, cooing gently to the life inside, his heart bursting with pride and joy. Even now, he couldn't help the little burst of pride that shot through him, but he also felt fear and a desperate need for this all to turn out okay.

But even as he looked, the throng of Legionaries seemed to grow ever larger, and Craig realized that there was no hope. He didn't have the ammunition for this kind of job. A few grenades would have scattered them, but even he could not throw that far. There were too many. She was too far away. He could already see it in her eyes, five hundred meters away. A part of her was already dead. He couldn't save her.

In the instant that the realization became clear, Boone felt pain he'd long thought suppressed by the veil of passing time. He felt helplessness and despair. His demons had come back to haunt him. She had not been his salvation. She had been his punishment, he realized. It had had to come to this; she had been doomed from the day they'd met. And he felt himself seized by hatred - hatred for the Legion, hatred for himself, hatred for everyone in Novac who'd had a hand in this. Hatred at the world for there was only one way for this to end. Only one. He refocused his wife in his sights, the way forward now clear.

He could not let her life like this, degraded like an animal, forced to shoulder a burden that was not hers. He could not allow his child to be born into such a life. He could not stand the thought of another man having his wife. It was intolerable. This was the only way.

It was still murder. Blood would still be on his hands, but he was now resigned to his fate. One bullet. Painless. It was what she deserved. It was the least and the most that he could do for her.

Tears rose to his eyes and he let them fall, only because no one would see. He wept for his wife and for himself, but mostly for the child she carried that would never see the light of day. He was truly fortune's fool, he thought. How he could have let his curse befall another he did not know. He steadied his rifle and placed a finger on the trigger. Placed the crosshairs between her two beautiful, expressive eyes. And then it was over.

There was the explosive crack of the rifle and in the same instant that Carla Boone crumpled, her husband on the cliff clutched the rifle to his chest and a sob wracked his body, and a cry of agony was ripped from his lips, so loud he was sure that everyone in the camp below heard it. He lay there for what seemed like an eternity, the harsh smell of gunpowder in his nostrils, feeling like his chest had been ripped open. Someone had reached through his ribcage and ripped his heart out, probably the pregnant woman sprawled out on the sand with the life bleeding out of her. His mind took a few seconds to catch up to his heart, but when he was finally able to process what he had just done, it was devastating.

He had just killed his own wife.

Mercy killing or no mercy killing, he would never see her again.

That fact alone might have been enough for him to have condemned her to a life of slavery. She would have been a slave and she would have been miserable, but she would have been alive, and there would have been a chance, however small, of him being able to rescue her. But as he thought this, a part of him knew that he'd done the right thing. It would have been selfish for him to leave her to that fate, but it didn't make it feel any better. He wanted to die. He wanted to join her in heaven, but he was afraid that he'd end up in hell instead.

Perhaps it was this that gave him the crazed self-preservation to pick up his rifle and run, to get as far away from it as possible. He just turned away from his dead wife and ran without looking back, not caring if he was being pursued. He just needed to get away.

* * *

><p>Through the haze of her pain and confusion, she felt two pairs of arms roughly yank her upright. She felt herself being dragged across the dirt, and then she felt the waning sun on her face again. Her fuzzy vision cleared a little. Her head was spinning. She struggled, trying to get her bearings, trying to see what was going on. They were too strong.<p>

They dragged her for what seemed like forever before they dropped her unceremoniously on the ground, where she collapsed in a shameful heap. She braced her hands on the ground and slowly pushed herself up to a sitting position. She blinked, her heart racing with equal parts fear and anticipation.

The first thing she saw was Jacob, kneeling silently in the dirt with a White Leg standing over him with a machete. His face was streaked with blood and she saw that his nose had been broken. Rebecca saw the rest of her family there too - her father, her mother, and Megan. Where were they? Why were they here? What was going on? She looked desperately to her parents for answers, but they shook their heads. She suddenly remembered what had happened to the rest of her town, and cold fear settled in her gut.

There was someone else there, too, someone she didn't recognize. He was an old, balding man, somehow old enough for his hair to be white and yet he didn't look much older than her mother. He was wearing a crimson garb with a black fur draped over his shoulder. He looked...royal, almost. And it seemed that the White Legs answered to him. Well, maybe. He was flanked by two other crimson-clad soldiers, both wearing these ridiculous leather skirts. Their faces were both hidden by sunglasses and they both had pneumatic gauntlets on their hands. They probably were what they looked like - cold, impersonal bodyguards. But for who? She didn't want to guess who they were, partly because she already knew.

The man looked at her curiously. "So," he remarked. "You're Rebecca. A little skinny if you ask me," he added, giving her mother an amused look. It was a comment she heard from her relatives all the time. It didn't stop her from seething in rage at the comment. Who was this man? He had no right to comment on her size.

She stared back at him in part defiance, a million questions running through her head. Who was he? How did he know her? Why were they the only people who'd been brought before him? He was obviously the one calling the shots. Why hadn't he sought out the mayor, or the leaders of the local militia? Were they themselves special in some way? Why did he seem to know her mother? They were questions that would not all have answers until much later.

She was surprised to hear her mother answer. "She never had a big stomach," she said stiffly, her voice tightly under control.

"She takes after you, though," he said, a little wistfully. The tone of his voice made her skin crawl. She was forced to look down from his prying gaze and stared resolutely at the dust on the road.

"Don't lay a hand on her," her mother whispered.

"You betrayed me, Madison," he declared, staring at her with what seemed to be veiled revulsion, but also perhaps nostalgia. "I found myself in the East. Was it at the cost of losing you?"

"You never had me," she said. Rebecca heard the slightest tremor in her voice. "You were dead to me when we heard of what you'd done. You were dead to all of us."

She let her words hang in the air. The man in the fur looked like he'd been slapped in the face. Civilizations rose and fell in the silence that followed. Then he slapped her, hard, and she fell across her father's lap. Rebecca screamed and somewhere to her right she heard Megan scream too. Jacob winced but his face remained impassive. She couldn't read his emotions behind the blood on his face. She scrambled across towards her mother, not knowing if someone was trying to stop her but not caring, either. She just needed to be near her parents, to console and to be consoled. She didn't know what was going on, but it was slowly starting to make sense. As much as she wanted the truth, her mind rejected it. She could only focus on her mother, a strong, proud woman reduced to...to this. Hate rose in her chest. Hate and fear.

"Mom," she cried. She looked up at her dad. He looked dazed, confused. She saw blood trickling from a cut on his head. "Dad?" He nodded weakly and tried to offer her a smile.

The man towered above them all, breathing hard. "Who are you?" Rebecca screamed at him. "What do you want from us?"

He forced a harsh laugh. "You never told them?" he mocked her mother, eyes flashing. "Even after I took Joshua away, you never told them?"

"There was nothing to tell," her mother told him. Her voice cracked. "They didn't need to know."

"Those words will sound awfully hollow strung up on the cross," he remarked. "Madison, you betrayed me. In the Legion, there's only one punishment for betrayal."

His words, stamped behind her eyes for the rest of her life.

She didn't know why he spared her. Maybe it was because she was the youngest. Maybe it was just...because. Maybe it had been her resemblance to the one that'd gotten away. It didn't matter. He'd made a mistake. She would never forget him. She would never forgive him. And she knew his name. Edward Sallow.

There was only one punishment for betrayal.


	2. I Will Shake Your Filthy Hand

2: I Will Shake Your Filthy Hand

It was deathly cold outside, but under the sack she was sweating buckets.

She couldn't remember how long she'd been lying there, or why she had been tied and gagged. Her hands had lost feeling a long time ago, but she knew that there were ropes digging into her wrists. She couldn't see, but she knew she was in a world of trouble right now.

She struggled with the ropes even though she knew it was no good. She couldn't help the whimpers of panic that escaped her lips. She struggled in a losing battle. Through the haze of her fear, she heard voices.

"You got what you wanted, so pay up," demanded a rough voice. It must have been the large Khan. She could vaguely remember bits and pieces. They'd ambushed her on the road. She hadn't even seen it coming, but then she was on the ground and the man in the suit was going through her pockets. And then they'd knocked her out and now she was here.

"You're crying in the rain, pally," replied a smoother voice. Her vision cleared. There was the man with the suit, and the two Khans. Her head was spinning. Who were they? What did they want? She was just a Courier...

"I don't see why you should go through all this fuss," the Khan said. "Why don't you just shoot her and get it over with?"

Her blood turned to ice. Did they intend to kill her? She started to relax when the suit spoke again.

"Maybe Khans like to shoot people in the face without looking them in the eye," he said, shooting the tribal a harsh look. "But I ain't a fink, dig?" He reached into his jacket. "Time to cash out," he murmured, half to himself.

He withdrew something from his jacket and held it up to the light. For the first time, she saw what she was carrying with her own two eyes. She'd known what it was-a platinum poker chip-but hadn't realized that it had been worth enough for someone to steal. She began to dread having to return to Primm empty-handed. Would she lose her job? Would she get reprimanded? Would an opportunity like this come to her again? She mentally kicked herself for being so goddamn careless. She mentally kicked herself for taking the job in the first place.

She wanted to scream in frustration. Had she come so far just to get killed now? She didn't want to believe that her family's murderers would get away because of a profiteering bastard with a lead erection. If his intention was simply to scare her, she would play the part. If he wanted to rape her, she didn't care. She would find him later...after she found what she was looking for.

"You've made your last delivery, kid," he told her, and she felt her heart sink into the dirt. He took something else out of his jacket, and she immediately realized that she was in over her head. There was no hope. None of her agility would outrun a bullet. She could not take her eyes off the gun until she was staring down the barrel of it.

Anger welled up in her chest. Was this the end of the road? she wondered angrily. She had not come all this way to die now. She wondered if she could will the gun back down to his side. A thousand impossibilities flitted through her head. This was stupid, she thought. The cruel irony of it all was overwhelming. She slowly met his eyes. She wanted to remember his face. The very idea that a dumbass in a suit was going to stop her from getting what she needed to was unacceptable. She stared at him, hating him.

"From where you're kneeling, this must look like an eighteen-carat round of bad luck," he remarked. "But to tell you the truth...the game was rigged from the start."

She stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, her eyes drifting past the gun. She wanted to memorize every detail of his face. She wanted to remember who it had been to try and kill her. She quietly swore to herself that she would not allow herself to die. She should have been scared, but the strongest emotion she felt was rage. She'd had a plan for the future. All she'd needed was one job and somehow, someone had managed to fuck that up, too. She felt the rage gripping her chest. It wasn't _fair_. She felt helpless, desperate. For the first time, she felt utter despair. No justice would be served on her watch if she died. If she died, her family would never rest in peace. She tried, briefly, to make peace with a God she still tried to believe in. Then she gave up and stared down the barrel of his gun.

An explosive crack split the silence of the night, and it was all over. She expected it to be painless. It wasn't. The bullet lodged itself in her head and stayed there. It was agonizing, and if she still had the strength she might have screamed. She vaguely felt the dirt make contact with her head-or maybe it was the other way around. She wasn't sure if she was dead or not, but she knew that only a miracle from God would save her now.

* * *

><p>Life went on in painful monotony. He soon lost track of the days, only watching for when the sky grew dark. He fell into a routine: Get up at noon, eat, work out, pull guard duty. Repeat. He hoped that focusing on a normal routine would help him forget. It didn't.<p>

His neighbors weren't stupid. They knew something was wrong, but they were also smart enough to leave him alone about it. He avoided their eyes, and only spoke when absolutely necessary. He tried, with his body language, to give little indication that making conversation with him would do any good. It worked. Nobody talked to him. After a while, even Cliff didn't speak to him. And Cliff made conversation with everyone.

To anyone else, the self-inflicted isolation might have been torture. For Boone, it was bliss. He didn't want to see the pity in their eyes, didn't want to fathom the idea that they might, just might, have been glad Carla was gone. He wondered if anyone knew. He didn't want to talk to them because he didn't want to know what people were thinking about the debacle. He didn't want them to ask where he'd been. He didn't want to entertain the thought that they might have figured it out. He simply shut himself off from the world and thought nothing of it. Soon the world began to ignore him too, and he didn't mind.

Eventually, the monotony ceased to be a distraction, or indeed any sort of comfort at all. It wasn't that Boone was uncomfortable with the isolation he'd shut himself in. As the days passed, as Carla grew colder and ever colder in a (probably unmarked) grave and as Boone tried to crush the feelings that threatened to overwhelm him, he began to realize that someone in Novac probably had something to do with his wife's disappearance.

The realization should have hit him the moment he'd returned, but he'd been too miserable to care. Now, he was equally miserable, but he'd had some time to think about it - and it made sense. Nobody in the town would admit it, especially not to him, but Carla wasn't terribly well received to begin with. She'd always said what she thought and not everyone appreciated it; she'd been used to a standard of living that they could not provide and she'd craved a level of freedom that Novac's isolation could not give her. What if someone had decided to take out their frustrations on her?

Now it was paranoia that kept Boone distant from his neighbors, but he slowly opened up to them, hoping to find some clue as to who might have sold his wife. There were a few people he could automatically rule out. Ranger Andy was NCR; he hated the Legion. He wouldn't sell so much as a grain of salt to them if he could help it. No-bark Noonan was also off the list; he was too batshit crazy to deal with the Legion without himself getting enslaved as well. Suspects at the top of his list were...Manny. And Cliff. That was about it. But everyone was suddenly suspicious. Boone tried to keep a top on his suspicions, but he found himself being wary of the traveling doctors and merchants, too. He wondered if the person who'd sold Carla would go so far as to silence him and remove the evidence.

He kept telling himself that he didn't care about dying anymore. All the same, he found himself sleeping with a gun on his nightstand and a knife under his pillow again. It was the first time he'd taken the habit since he'd met Carla.

Boone finally found the guts to tell Manny what had happened. As candidly as possible, he related how he'd tracked her kidnappers and shot her in the head. It pained him to hear the words, but he forced them out anyway. He fought back tears the entire time.

"Oh," Manny said lamely when he was done with his hushed confession. He didn't say anything else. "Did you find them?"

He was silent. He was trying to gauge his friend's reaction to the news. He seemed unsurprised and apathetic at best, but at worst...he seemed _glad_. Boone always knew that he'd resented Carla; why, he could not fathom. But now, rage boiled in his chest and he fought to keep it under control.

"No," he lied.

"I'm sorry, man," Manny said, doing his best to sound consoling and supportive.

"You're _sorry_," Boone repeated slowly, trying not to let his anger show. He failed. "That's it? Just _sorry_?"

"I don't know what else you expect me to say," Manny said stiffly.

"I didn't expect you to say anything," he replied coldly. "I didn't think you'd be glad Carla was gone, either. Especially like that."

"If you didn't think that, you didn't know a damn thing," Manny spat back at him.

Boone got up abruptly and stared down at the man he'd once called his friend. He seemed to see the error of his words, but he said nothing.

"Stay the hell away from me, Vargas," he said. "We're not friends anymore."

Then he left, his fists clenched in rage. Even his best friend had betrayed him. He really had no place in this town anymore. The only thing that kept him from leaving was that he had neither a destination nor a culprit for Carla's demise. As he walked back to his motel room, Craig Boone quietly resolved that he would find both, or die trying.


	3. You May Be Dead To Me

_A/N: If you're reading _Of Mice and Men_ by John Steinbeck for any reason, this chapter spoils the book for you. Sorry about that._

3: You May Be Dead To Me

Boone stood in the empty lobby, unsure of why he was here. Jeannie had made no secret of her contempt for Carla, but the lady wasn't capable of murder...was she?

He drew a deep breath. One way to find out.

He searched every drawer in the file cabinets, not knowing what he'd find and doubting whether he'd find anything at all. Most of the drawers were empty. He privately wondered what Jeannie would think if she found him here, but he didn't care. He stopped at the last of the cabinets and straightened up, feeling a little drained.

This was a mistake, he thought. There was nothing to find. He swept his eyes over the room one last time, more resigned than determined this time. His eyes fell on the safe behind her desk, and an idea crept into his mind.

His heart was pounding as he crouched down and took a bobby pin out of his pocket. With the skills he thought he'd forgotten, Boone picked the lock. He still didn't know what he'd find, but he searched the safe anyway. He found some caps, which he left. There was a gun with some spare shells, and tucked at the very bottom was a folded slip of paper.

He reached for it even as his mind screamed at him not to. He took it in his hand and slowly unfolded it, sure that all he'd find was an invoice for some passing guest, or a page torn out of a ledger. He was right, in a way.

The thing that caught his eye was the heading. It was a Bill of Sale, and as he read on he saw without a shadow of a doubt what the merchandise had been.

Bile rose in his throat as he read the neat, tight handwriting of the man who'd given her the receipt. His wife and unborn child had both been part of the exchange. She'd been given two thousand caps for the deed. Two thousand caps.

His blood boiled. Carla was worth far more than two thousand measly caps. He clenched his jaw in anger. Nobody was worth any sum of money in the world, not ever. Especially not his Carla. She had died for two thousand caps. And why, because one of her comments had hit too close to home for Novac's self-proclaimed mayor? Who else had a hand in this? He wanted so badly to find out. He wanted more than just closure. He wanted _revenge._

He wanted to ball up the note, burn it, wanted to burst into Jeannie May Crawford's house and bring her out in front of everyone and tell all of Novac what she'd done. He could. He had every right to. There was nothing to stop him. And yet...

He could not. He couldn't fathom what he might do if he followed through with his plan. The only logical conclusion would be for him to leave, but he had nowhere to go and he certainly couldn't set out alone. The familiar feeling of helplessness threatened to overwhelm him again. With all the control he could muster, Boone folded up the note and put it back where he'd found it before quietly closing and locking the safe. He made sure to leave the room exactly as he'd left it before he closed the door behind him and ran back to the dinosaur.

* * *

><p>After that night, he ceased to see Jeannie May Crawford as a human. He avoided her like the plague. When she entered a room, he left it just as quickly, and he was sure that she knew what he'd found. He didn't give her a chance to find out for certain. He stared at her sometimes, when she didn't notice, and wondered how a kind, benevolent woman like Jeannie could have felt strongly enough about Carla's snark to have condemned her to a life of slavery for it. But as he thought of it, he knew she was fiercely proud of the settlement that she'd help found.<p>

It still doesn't give her the right to sell Carla into slavery, he said to himself.

He found himself thumbing through one of Carla's old Pre-war books. The title had faded from the cover, but it was still visible on the other pages. It was a book written by a man named John Steinbeck. It took place, funnily enough, in California. It must have been written long before he pre-war era he knew, because there was no mention of the Chinese, or of robots of any kind, or indeed anything he associated with the old world. More out of boredom than anything, he read.

The story was about two men who were nothing alike: a small man with a sharp mind named George and his best friend, a large man with a slow mind named Lennie. They were looking for work on a farm, and found it. As the tale went on, Boone felt that he could somehow relate to George and Lennie. He and Manny had dreamed of getting their own place when they were in the NCR. The two of them, however different, had forged a bond so solid that nothing could break it. Lennie was fiercely protective of his friend, and George returned the favor. Lennie didn't know his own strength, and he had to be kept in line at times.

In the few hours he had left before his shift, Craig succeeded in reading the book in its entirety. There were some words he had to skip over, but he nevertheless was able to make sense of the events that unfolded later in the book. Lennie had let his strength get away from him, and a deadly accident had ensued. When he read about how George killed Lennie out of love, he could read no longer. More out of shock than of disgust, Boone threw the book into the far corner of the room. He could not have seen the act as anything other than the greatest act of mercy and love George could have afforded for his friend. He could not see it as anything else because if he did, it begged the question - what kind of monster was he?

He thought of what would have happened to Lennie otherwise. He would have been imprisoned, probably executed, and all without knowing why. Boone was shocked not because so much of the death, but because of how close it'd hit to home for him. God dammit. It was too soon.

He remembered why he'd never taken up reading like his wife had. He always succeeded in picking up books that prodded at the weakest points in his armor. Instead of finding some sort of comfort in the book, he'd succeeded in making himself even more miserable. His only solace was that perhaps somewhere, in the world of fiction, there was someone else who felt exactly like him.

He almost missed his shift that night. He'd woken up with a start to Manny banging on his door at nine in the evening and hurriedly grabbed his rifle, brushing past his former friend. He heard him try and say something to him, but he didn't respond. He didn't care.

The closure Boone thought his investigation might bring him did not come to him. Instead, his confusion had been replaced with something else. He was determined to make Jeannie May Crawford pay for what she'd done. He wanted to look down the scope of his rifle and watch her head explode. He wanted her to pay and he wanted to know that he'd been the one to collect on her debt to God.

He stared out at the hills, towards what he knew to be Nelson. As he watched the desolate scene before him, he contemplated his future. There was nothing left for him here. He resolved to take care of business, but he promised himself that he would never return to this hellhole in the middle of nowhere. His final promise to himself was twofold. He would kill Jeannie May Crawford. And he would make the next person to enter Novac an accomplice. And then he'd leave Novac and never look back.

* * *

><p>Rebecca pursued her attempted killer more out of apathy than anything. Not being able to collect on her payment for the delivery proved to be a significant setback. She'd hoped to get a better gun with the money and then go take care of business, but evidently fate had had other plans. She walked the road to Nipton now, hoping to find some clues and a drink before continuing on to Novac.<p>

As she neared the settlement, it became evident that she would find neither. The stench of burning rubber and flesh hit her nose all at once and she gagged, squinting her eyes to see what she was walking into.

Half a mile away, she could see the town in flames. Dark pillars of smoke twisted up towards the sky. She gripped her shotgun, praying that she wouldn't have to use it. She dreaded what she would find.

On the main road, she was met by a hysterical young man in glasses and an NCRCF jumpsuit, whooping in euphoria. He almost didn't notice her, but when he did, he waved at her.

"I won the lottery!" he shrieked with joy. "Who won the lottery? I did! Woo-hoo!"

She stopped and stared incredulously as he ran off towards supposed freedom, wondering if the man had escaped a rabid Deathclaw in his basement or whether he was simply insane. She watched him run into the desert and chuckled at the thought of him stepping on a landmine a few hundred yards out or something else equally ironic, but the smile died on her lips as she turned and faced Nipton again.

She was walking down the road of a nightmare. In rows on either side of the road were men lashed to makeshift crosses, their eyes glazed over in pain. She stared in disbelief at the macabre display, her heart in her throat. She recognized that they'd been up there for a long time. They'd lost the energy to scream and were now just waiting for the end. She looked around, trying to stay calm. In every face she saw the ones she'd lost to the cross, and it terrified her. They were still whimpering in the agony of the crucifixion, glassy eyes fixed on her. In her mind, they were begging her to end it, but she couldn't. She couldn't. As she looked further down, she could see a pile of corpses burning on tires, the lucky ones. The acrid smell hit her nose as the wind blew her way and she gagged; it took all of her willpower to not vomit. Oh, God, it was awful.

Cold sweat ran down her face. If ever she'd endured a nightmare so real, it was this one. She forced herself to keep walking. She wondered if the men who'd perpetrated the crime were still here, but she hoped not. The town wasn't even worth looting anymore. She hurried down the road, hoping to pass through as quickly as possible.

Then the city hall doors opened, and they appeared.

Rebecca counted them as they emerged: they were clad in crimson armor with varying designs, each carrying a firearm or a machete. There were about six of them, flanked by dogs. The man at the helm was a tall, pale man wearing an absurd dog hat. She initially wondered if they intended to lash her to a cross like the others, and braced herself to run.

When he was in earshot, the man in the hat started talking.

"Don't worry," he assured her. "I won't have you lashed to the cross like the rest of these degenerates. It's useful that you happened by."

She stared at him for a moment, trying to decide how to respond. Her hand twitched towards her pistol.

"Thanks, I guess," she said finally, suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"That's a question I could ask you as well, but names are rather irrelevant at this point," replied the man. He had a voice that made her skin crawl. She suppressed a shudder. "What matters now is what happened here. It would do you good to listen well."

It took nearly all her willpower to look the man in the face. "I think I'd rather not know," she said, her eyes roving over the burning bodies in the town square. Again, she furtively reached for her sidearm. He seemed to notice. The shadow of a smirk touched his lips.

His face remained impassive. "Fine," he replied coolly. "Maybe I should make you part of the message, then."

She knew exactly what he meant.

The next few moments were a blur in her memory. In a practiced, lightning-fast motion, Rebecca had her gun in her hand. She shot the dog-hat between the eyes. Then she shot at one of the men flanking him. He collapsed—she didn't know if he was dead but she didn't care. Three more shots rang out. By the time she came back to her senses, four men were dead on the ground and the remaining Legionaries were reaching for their own weapons.

Before she knew quite what she was doing, Rebecca was sprinting in the opposite direction, away from the crimson-clad men and their dogs, trying to put as much distance between them as she possibly could. She thought she could feel the hot breath of the Legion mongrels on her heels, but she didn't dare look back and make sure. She felt a bullet graze her arm and she screamed, but she didn't dare stop. She just kept running. Two giant statues came into her view and she focused on them, hoping to high heaven that she would lose her pursuers before she got there. Her lungs were on fire and she could feel two stitches open up in her sides, but she didn't care. She just needed to get away.

Finally, she could run no longer. Wheezing, Rebecca fell to her knees. She felt her hand impale itself on a cactus in the ground, but she didn't have the breath to cry out. She couldn't hear the barking anymore, and realized that she must have lost them. She tried to breathe a sigh of relief, but she fell into a bout of coughing instead.

She didn't realize that she was crying until she'd stopped running. She coughed violently, tears falling onto the hard, caked desert soil, and took in deep, shuddering breaths as she struggled to control her sobbing. Eventually, she gave up. She fell in the desert sand, crying her eyes out. Never before had she felt so firmly entrenched below rock bottom. She was a coward. She could have, should have finished the job but instead she'd run. More Legion blood could have been spilled if she hadn't been such a little bitch. She dropped her gun on the ground, wheezing and sobbing, and wished that she had someone, anyone, to make her feel better. There was no one. She was utterly alone.

She heard shouting and for a terrifying moment she thought that they'd caught up to her. She tried to sit up, tried to reach for her pistol, but then she saw that the men coming for her were not Legion. Rebecca finally looked around to see where she was. The two statues she'd seen earlier now loomed over her head and she realized she'd run farther than she'd thought.

She let them carry her back to the Outpost without much protest. When the doctor patched up her cactus spine-ridden hand and her injured arm, she was given a dose of scotch and put to bed.

In the middle of the night, she got up and left. She quietly gathered her things, filled up her water bottle, and headed again in the direction of Novac. This time, she gave Nipton a wide berth.


End file.
